Poppies, German fields, something
about death and life cycles
foreign, faded papers and
red, rusted bicycles
I do not belong here.
I sigh. Shift, and sip my wine.
Poetry readings bore me
All these pricks with their monotone voices
Empty, soulless pretty words
and not one damn insight or meaning
in the whole bar
(I wonder if I can sleep with my eyes open
and people will think I'm just lost in verse)
In my purse, my own poetry volume
And my intent here was to schmooze
I am pretty and proper
despite lack of black turtle neck and beret
(yes, some fucker is wearing a black beret)
I am not one of these pompous
overly-edited, overly-educated pricks
who have nothing to say
but derivative drivel
that spills out of thesauruses
and rhyming dictionaries
but not veins
I am cocky.
I embrace that I might just be
something new and rough
jaded and raw
unpolished and spontaneous
ugly and truthful and crazy
I like it.
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